


Μνάσεσθαί Τινα Φαιῖμι

by Caepio



Series: Basia [1]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Cato the Younger (mentioned), Graffiti, Insomnia, M/M, No Angst, and haven't done anything to piss each other off yet, cassius (mentioned), cicero (mentioned), drunk decisions, except like. exist. you know., no stress, no yikes, roman night life, sappho quotes, they’re like 25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: Two and a Half Sappho Quotes and One Kiss - A one off story about that time Brutus hung out on the Aventine at 3 am and got a lecture on the importance of graffiti.





	Μνάσεσθαί Τινα Φαιῖμι

Middle of summer. Unbearably hot. Even after sunset, even hours after, the paving stones still radiated noon heat. People tossed and turned, windows thrown wide, blankets kicked off, slaves with fans forced up through the night. 

The moon set, and the Pleiades, midnight, then an hour past. Brutus lay in bed, alone, sheets tangled at the foot of the bed, desperate for cool. At 2 am, Brutus got up, got dressed. He couldn’t sleep, not even on the best of nights, and not a night like this. He laced up his sandals, pulled a dark pallium around himself, and went out at the courtyard gate, quiet, barely opening it enough to pass. The Palatine was shadowed and empty, the air dusty and filled with the dry scent of olive trees and oranges. Soft music came from somewhere down the street- a restless patrician making a vain bid for slumber.

Brutus went down through the lower houses, past the temple of Vesta, lamps still burning in the portico even at that hour, even in that heat. He kept walking, the press of the pavement hard and unyielding, beyond the point that he could remember that he hadn’t slept and he’d walked too far that day already.

Not _everyone_ was asleep. The whole city wasn’t silent. There were places that were always awake, winter, summer, day and night. Brutus went down, south along the Tiber towards the Aventine, till there was light, and noise, and a world not fruitlessly focussed on sleep. 

Sometimes better to have noise than solitude, sometimes better to watch other people have a life around you than feel the weight of everything alone. Brutus was not an infrequent visitor to the Aventine and it's night life, not that he would broadcast that fact, and not because he wanted company, or conversation, but just because he wanted to have the world as awake as he was, and be free of the somnal weight of other’s weariness. 

He tucked himself into a shadowy corner of a tavern, loud, vibrant, people coming and going, nursing the obligatory cup of cheap wine he wouldn’t ever actually drink. Music (rhythmic, heady, and unconducive to sleep) rose and fell over the voices and shouts, captivating. 

Brutus leaned his head back against the wall behind him, unfocussed, letting the noise, and the heat, and the bright lights wash together. He wasn’t really awake. He wasn't really asleep. He let his mind catch on the threads of other people’s conversations as they faded in and out, half audible.

“You should watch yourself - Close your eyes here and you won't leave with your money.”

Brutus opened his eyes. Antony had sat down across from him, silent, unobtrusive. “Are you really drinking that?” he asked.

Brutus hesitated, straightening slightly, “No.”

“Good, _it’s shit._” Antony pushed an amber coloured flask across the table, despite the smile, a look in his eyes like he was testing something. “Here - They always have something better in the back if you pay.”

“I'm not here to-”

“Go on. It’s good - From Thasos.”

Brutus took it, watching Antony cautiously for a moment, before raising it to his lips. It was good. Very good. Better even than what Brutus imported. He set the flask down hurriedly, pushing it back towards Antony.

“Told you.” Antony laughed, taking a drink from it himself.

“You must have brought that with you.”

“I come here most nights. They keep some in the back, they know I’ll pay. No reason to get drunk for cheap if you can have something better. _I’m not a Catonian._”

Brutus ignored the gibe. Looking at Antony, ruddy with wine, eyes dark, dressed to grab attention (_not that he ever needed help with that_), Brutus thought that it didn't need saying. “If their wine’s no good, why would you-”

“Now, that was going to be _my_ question.” Antony leaned across the table, like Brutus was the most interesting thing there that night, and Brutus - watching the collection of women in sheer silk going up the back steps of the tavern - was quite sure that wasn’t the case. 

“What are you doing in this part of town?” Antony asked. “Obviously not here for a drink, and I thought you liked to keep your nights for more prosaic business.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Can you ever?”

“Do you listen to every rumour about me?”

“Just the ones I think are true.” Antony replied, like it was something that Brutus should be pleased by, like he was trying to get on his good side, and Brutus, discomfited, reached out and grabbed the flask back, taking another drink rather than keep meeting Antony’s eyes. 

Antony laughed, a sharp grin twisting his mouth. The lamp light was catching in his hair, bright, tangled, distracting. “Careful- there’s no water in that.” 

Brutus flushed, suddenly irritated, he took another sip, watching Antony, challenging, and then pushed the flask back to him. 

"Really though-" Antony went on, restraining laughter, "Don't think I've seen you here before. _You don't really fit in._"

"Can't I go where I want to, for my own reasons?"

"Just feel like I should give you a _tour. _Make sure you get the _whole experience_ before you go back to that dry, acropolis lifestyle of yours." He pushed the cork back into the bottle and stood up. “Come on- _I want to show you something._” He started to go, sliding back into the crowd of people without waiting for Brutus’ response, and Brutus hesitated, but when Antony slipped out the door, out of sight, he got up, unwilling to be seen to be apprehensive and uncomfortable, and followed after. 

He caught up with him easily (Antony had counted on him following) and Antony put a hand on Brutus’ shoulder, pulling him along, outside and around the back of the tavern into the alleyway. The walls were covered, street level to higher than a tall man could reach, with vivid writing and sketches, a haphazard mix of colours and styles layered over each other, the odd space of white wash peaking through where someone had tried to erase the lot. 

Antony dropped his arm heavily around Brutus’ shoulders, the flask dangling from his fingertips. He pointed towards the uppermost left corner of the wall, a faded, but still clear sketch visible - graphic, unrealistically proportioned, but otherwise well executed - covering several feet of wall space. “I did that when I was 16.” Antony said, with all the pride of an artisan, even as a slightly self-amused tone crept into his voice. 

Brutus stared up at it, head tilted back, a heady dizziness unbalancing him after a moment and he dropped his gaze. “What am I supposed to say? Congratulations?” 

Antony laughed, “Come on, it's not bad.” 

“How did you get up there?” 

“Stood on Curio’s shoulders. Swears I nearly broke his arm getting down.”

Brutus waited for his back to tense under Antony’s arm, waited to feel the appropriate odium at that part of Antony’s life, but it didn’t come. He barely felt _real_ when it came down to it, standing there in the half light spilling out of the tavern windows above them, pressed against Antony’s side, so close he could smell the opium smoke that clung to his clothes. 

Antony stepped away from him, hand still on his shoulder, but no longer quite so close, and Brutus nearly followed, but he caught himself and merely let Antony point out another sketch farther down, and another - half covering a fanciful depiction of Leda. Brutus stepped closer. He could just make out the text surrounding the figure, the name attached to the swan like a collar, and he immediately pulled away. Antony didn’t comment - as if he hadn't noticed, as if he didn't know it was there. 

“Why are you showing me this?” Brutus asked.

Antony turned to look at him, breaking off in his narration of a continuing series of rhyming puns going straight down the corner of one wall, obviously the work of a string of different people. 

“Don’t you think it's interesting?”

“I mean…”

"You've never actually looked at graffiti have you?”

“Why would I?”

“Isn’t it the _littlest bit_ worth while?” Antony grabbed his arm, pulling him farther down the alleyway. “You see that red paint up there?” He asked, and Brutus tilted his head trying to read it.

“The one that says Himerus was here and-” Brutus broke off, seeing the rest of the phrase. 

Antony laughed. “Yeah. Here’s the thing- That one’s at least 50 years old.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s an old drunk who still comes round here- He says he was there that night.”

“And you don’t think there's a chance the man is just lying for a good story?”

Antony shrugged, “Maybe. But think about it - Parts of this building have been here for at least 100 years, people have been drawing on this wall, or walls near it for _much longer_. Isn't there a value there? You’re very fond of history and continuity - What makes this worth less than the personae in your hall or the antique sculpture you’ll spend a soldier’s yearly salary on just because you feel like it?”

Brutus crossed his arms, suddenly uncomfortable, and unwilling to articulate why. “But it's just… Sex. I mean- Look at half this stuff-”

“Yeah, and I saw you laughing at Lysistrata last week so-”

Brutus hadn’t told anyone he was going. He’d made a point of avoiding the good seats and had snuck into the top tiers of the amphitheater, out of the way just after the play had started. 

“How did you-”

Antony looked at him, eyebrows raised, “Really? That’s a pretty damn expensive shade of blue you were wearing. You don’t see a lot of plebs going to see a _greek comedy_ wearing _that._” Seeing Brutus’ expression he laughed, “Don't be so paranoid, I'm kidding. I was a few rows down, I heard you.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Yeah well, I can blend in when I want to.” 

Brutus looked away, following a line of text along the wall, avoiding Antony’s eyes. He went a little farther down the street, fading into the shadows the farther he got, and Antony followed - “Why didn’t you want anyone seeing you?” He asked. 

“You know why.”

“I said I only listened to gossip I thought was true.” 

Brutus glanced at him, unreadable, tense. 

"I know you’ve got a sense of humour under that act you have going. And I see you laughing silently, when you think no one's looking, especially when Cicero does something _really_ sententious.”

“I need people to take me seriously.”

“Oh they’ll do that regardless of if they know you laugh at Athenian dick jokes.” 

“My uncle wouldn’t.”

“Oh right - And since when do you do _exactly what he_-”

“Fine. You don't have to-”

“Brutus, I don't care. _You’re fine_ \- Shut up. It’s alright.” He took his arm, pulling him out of the shadows, “I’m not going to tell your uncle _you like Aristophanes._” He put his arm around him again, handing him the flask, “But next time- If you're looking for company, _ask me_.” 

Brutus looked up at him, dubious and still uncomfortable, but he took another drink, a little defiantly - _Of course it's fine. See? I do what I want when I want._ Antony watched him, oddly intent, his arm still a heavy, solid, weight across Brutus' shoulders, casual, immovable, almost _pleasant_, Brutus thought - But that wasn't exactly the right word. A moment later, Antony slid around him, heading towards a narrow door in the wall at the back of the tavern. “Wait here a minute- Alright?” He called before disappearing inside. 

Brutus watched him go, startled, more aware of how much he didn't fit in _without_ Antony there than he had been before. He went back to examining the wall. He thought he could pick out other drawings or jokes Antony had left - the lines clear, bold, and even when crass, clever enough that Brutus had to work to keep his expression blank. The bottle was nearly empty, and he took another measured sip, feeling it burn down his throat. 

Antony came back a moment later, with another flask, and a small clay bowl of red paint. He took the empty bottle from Brutus and handed him the bowl instead. “Go on- Add something. _Leave a mark._” 

“I'd hope I’d do that in a more meaningful way-”

“No- No judgement." He tilted his head to the side, smile twisting, a little mocking but it didn't _hurt_, and Brutus felt heat beneath his skin, more flushed than the wine had made him. "I said you should get the _whole experience_."

Brutus broke away from Antony's gaze and looked up at the wall. A little of the paint had spilled over the edge of the bowl, and it smeared across his fingers, sanguine and viscous. “Should I just-”

“Use your fingers. It’ll wash off as long as you don’t let it dry.”

Brutus looked up at the wall speculatively, and then, despite himself, feeling reckless, said, “Alright- Come here then.”

“Why?”

“_You’re going to help me up._” 

“Really?”

Brutus shrugged, “Why not? _If you could do it..._" Felt a little like a competition, like a test, and he didn't want to just sketch a fascinum on the wall in a rush and call it done, "There’s a clear space up there.” There was, just a little outside of Brutus’ reach, underneath an encomium to a local meretrīx. 

Antony laced his hands together and gave Brutus a leg up, letting him balance himself against the wall to reach far enough. The resulting lettering was uneven, and the paint smeared a little when Brutus, not _really_ as in control of his balance as he was sober, nearly fell, but he finished it, and dropped down again to the ground.

Antony stared up at the writing, eyes widening slightly, and he started to laugh. “Sappho- _very nice_. That blends in _perfectly._”

“Shut up. I did it, alright? Now you'll be stuck with it every time you come out here.”

“I could-”

“You wouldn’t.” Brutus picked up the full bottle from where Antony had set it down, drinking a little too much and half laughing, half coughing, leaning against the wall, head thrown back, not fully steady on his feet. Antony took the bottle away from him, and Brutus slid a little down the brick, grabbing the collar of Antony’s tunic to stay upright and Antony stumbled, bracing a hand against the wall, feeling the slide of less than fully dry paint against his palm. 

“Come on- Let’s get you home.” He began to say, pulling Brutus upright, but Brutus threw an arm around Antony’s shoulders, a little too close, _a little too drunk_, staring at Antony's mouth, the flush spreading down his neck. He pressed his forehead against Antony's, tightening his arm around him. Antony could feel his breath, warm against his lips, and he felt the slight tremor that ran through Brutus - some combination of exhaustion, inebriation, and desire - before Brutus, impulsive and a little clumsy, leaned up and kissed him. 

Antony didn’t pull away. He let Brutus tug him closer, and he slid an arm around his waist as Brutus arched against him

He could feel Brutus against his thigh, more than half hard. He could taste the wine on Brutus’ tongue, feel it in the unrestrained way he grabbed at Antony, like if they weren’t in an alleyway, he’d already have had his clothes off. He pushed Brutus back up against the wall, pressing kisses to the corner of his jaw, the line of his throat, and Brutus whimpered. 

“There’s a room upstairs-” Antony said quietly, unwilling to break Brutus out of whatever mood he was in that could cause this, and Brutus' fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him up into another kiss. “No one would see us.” He went on, “No one would have to know-”

Brutus pulled away, breathing heavily. He stared at Antony for a moment, eyes dark, then pushed his hair out of his face and swore under his breath, screwing his eyes shut. Finally, after a long moment, he shook his head. “No. That would be-” He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, “No. I can’t.” He looked up at Antony, taking in another slower breath, the flush slowly fading from his skin. “Thanks for the wine.” He said, almost, _quite_ calmly. “_And the history lesson-_" He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep looking at Antony, "-But I’m going to go home now.”

“Are you sure?” Antony said, stepping closer, “You can trust me, I won’t-”

Brutus shook his head, hands on Antony’s shoulders, holding him where he was. “No.” He managed a smile, polite, mask-like, a little more like himself, “_I don't trust anyone_, you know.” He slid his hands up from Antony’s shoulders, hesitant, controlled, cupping his face, streak of red along his cheekbone from the paint still on Brutus’ fingertips, “And I can’t stay drunk indefinitely.”

“_Why not?_” Antony asked, unable to look away, aiming and falling short of a joke.

Brutus didn't say anything, but he kissed him again, direct, precise, like it was a risk, like Antony was some kind of wild animal, unpredictable and dangerous if not handled right. “Thanks all the same.” He said softly, and pulled away, starting down the alley. “Goodnight.”

Antony stared after him, half stunned, and called- “It's nearly morning.”

Brutus stopped at the end of the alleyway, looking back, “Well. Good morning, then.” And he disappeared out into the street and the heat of a brightening morning. 

Antony went back inside. Someone shouted at him that there was blood on his face but he ignored them, and didn’t wash off the paint. The next day, standing in the shade away from the noon heat, he saw Brutus flush almost as bright as the vermilion pigment, seeing the streak of colour across Antony's cheek. “You’ve got paint on your neck, Junius,” he said, slipping past him down another street, just quietly enough that Cassius and Cicero (glaring) couldn’t hear. “You should probably do something about that.” And he laughed as Brutus self-consciously and ineffectually tried to rub the bright blue streak away.

**Author's Note:**

> Μνάσεσθαί τινά φαμι καὶ ὔστερον ἀμμέων.
> 
> Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time. 
> 
> Sappho  
Anne Carson
> 
> (I'd do my own translation, but let's face it, πάνυ γὰρ καλῶς εἶπεν.)


End file.
